Soft vs Hard
by SnerkyOne
Summary: Mary & Marshall debate. Stan loses patience. Disaster follows.
1. Chapter 1

**Ok, this is definitely not my normal type of story... I don't know that it even qualifies as a story; more of a drabble really, and a silly one at that. Regardless, it was fun to write, and I'm hoping it's also fun to read! Enjoy! :-)**

**Soft vs Hard, Chapter 1  
**

He sat at his desk, desperately trying to block out the argument currently raging outside his office door, yet failing miserably. They had started bickering about the merits of soft vs hard foods when in a fight, and things had degenerated from there. He could honestly say the past half hour ranked up there as some of the most excruciatingly painful moments he'd ever experienced which, considering he'd once been held hostage & tortured by a bored sociopath with nothing to lose, was saying a lot...

"Will you two just stop?!" he shouted, finally running out of patience. Five-year olds had more self-control than these two. Hell, mentally-deranged, impulse-control-lacking, inebriated drug addicts had more self-control than they did...

Realizing the feuding agents had no intention of complying with his order – if anything, things were getting progressively louder out there – Stan stood up and made his way to the door, all the while fantasizing about gagging both marshals and enjoying a few moments of blessed silence. He was so engrossed in the idea of a silent nirvana that he failed to heed Marshall's warning about flying food.

By the time his brain caught up with the warning (Flying FOOD??), it was too late. While time seemed to have slowed to a crawl, and he could clearly see the airborne hot-fudge sundae - scratch that, banana split! - coming at his head, he couldn't seem to get out of the way. After what seemed like ages, he heard the 'splat' of the hot-fudge-drenched, already-melting ice cream hitting him in the face & overflowing onto the top of his head, not to mention the 'splort' of the over-ripe banana as it flattened itself against his forehead.

"See!" came the triumphant shout from Mary, "I told you soft food was more effective!!"

"Fine, you win. Napkin, Stan?" asked the younger marshal, holding out a paper napkin the size of a postage stamp.

He just stood there speechless, shedding ice-cream, hot-fudge, and banana chunks all over the linoleum floor. He briefly thought about shooting them both where they stood, but decided he was probably over-reacting.

Marshall had offered him a napkin, after all.

He wouldn't shoot _him_...


	2. Chapter 2

**Soft vs Hard, Chapter 2**

Stan had gone home, ostensibly to get cleaned up, though Marshall suspected his leaving had more to do with wanting to get as far away as possible from the two agents than it did with any desire to get his whites their whitest. Surveying the destruction they had wreaked upon the outer office, he couldn't say he blamed him. He'd probably want to get away from them too, if he wasn't... Well, if wasn't one of 'them'...

Spotting a half-hidden, yogurt-drenched granola-cluster peeking out from under a filing cabinet, he sighed, wondering what it was about his partner that brought out his inner teenager. He'd always thought of himself as a pretty grounded person, someone who thought things through before taking action.

In other words, someone who used his head.

Meeting Mary Shannon had changed all that. One little dare from her and he was off, heedless of the consequences. No more using his head.

At least not the right one.

He picked up the wayward granola chunk, adding it to the growing collection of foodstuff in the garbage bag he was holding.

"You really screwed up, you know," his partner said smugly from her perch on the edge of the only clean desk in the room.

"How exactly did I screw up?" he asked, scooping up a handful of Skittles from the fax machine and dumping them in the bag too.

"That sundae was intended for you."

"Yes, I am aware of that. Still not getting how I screwed up, though, as you were the one who threw it," he added, scooping globs of tapioca pudding from his keyboard and mouse.

"Yes, but I was throwing it at _you,_" she explained, as if that cleared up everything.

"Still not really seeing how that makes any difference," he replied, pulling licorice out of the photocopier's paper tray. How the hell had that even gotten in there? "Besides," he added, scraping melted cheese from the copier plate, "Stan didn't exactly look like a happy dairy queen to me."

"Yeah, but you would have had one very important advantage over him."

"And what is that, pray tell," he asked, mopping up what he hoped was chocolate milk from the desk lamp. Where had all this food come from? Had the federal building started earning extra money by opening a grocery store in the basement or something?

"I would have helped you clean up."

"Like you're helping me now?" he asked sarcastically, looking around for any bits of food he might have missed. He lunged for a malt ball that about to roll under the desk, idly wondering why there was only one. Where had all the others gone?

"Not exactly. I was thinking of a more hands-on approach for you."

"Knowing you, I probably would have just ended up even dirtier than I was before you 'helped me' get cleaned up."

Spotting two additional malt balls on the chair, he looked them over carefully and, finding no trace of dirt or other obvious contaminants, popped one into his mouth. Between the food debate, the food fight, and the food cleanup, he was starving! He was so engrossed in his hunt for more fugitive malt balls that he failed to notice his partner leaving her perch and coming to stand behind him.

"Oh, things might have gotten dirty," she whispered in his ear, "but _you_ would have gotten clean, I promise you."

He whipped around to face her, started by her sudden invasion of his private space, all thoughts the Great Food Hunt vanishing from his mind.

"It looks like you did get some on you after all," she added, wiping a smudge of chocolaty ice cream from his cheek. "Did I mention how much I _love_ ice cream?" she asked, licking the gooey mess from her fingers.

He gaped at her, speechless.

"Well, since you don't need my help, I think I'll just go home," she said, turning away from him and heading for the door.

He watched her go, unsure what to do next.

Oh, what the hell...

Looking around, he spotted the open ice cream carton still sitting on top of the filing cabinet, along with the bottle of Smucker's chocolate topping. "Hey, Mare," he called out, reaching for both containers, "hold on!"

She _had_ offered to help him clean up, after all. It would be rude not to take her up on it...


	3. Chapter 3

**Soft vs Hard, Chapter 3**

She paused by the door, trying to keep from bursting out laughing. She knew she ought to feel at least a little guilty for yanking his chain like that, but damn it, he was just so much _fun_ to play with!

Still grinning, she turned around, mentally gearing up for another round of their patented banter. She was still trying to come up with a suitably witty opening comment when she caught sight of her partner, smirking smugly at her from across the room.

Oh my...

He was standing by her desk, doing a pretty damned good impression of a hot fudge sundae, complete with whipped cream & a cherry on top.

Kind of hard to misinterpret that move...

Licking her suddenly-parched lips, she pondered what to do next. While they often played this game, trying to see how far they could go without actually crossing the line, one of them _always_ backed off before things went too far. She'd always known they'd obliterate that line sooner or later, of course, but she'd naturally assumed she'd be the one doing the obliterating. She wasn't exactly known for her self-control; when she wanted something, she usually just went for it.

And, when it came right down to it, she wanted Marshall.

Watching him melting all over the floor, she fought the urge to drag him into the utility closet at the end of the hall, lick every drop of ice cream off him, and improvise from there...

"What happened?" she asked shakily, fighting for control over her suddenly runaway libido. No sense in letting him know how turned on she was right now. At least not yet...

"I tripped," he quipped, all innocence & light.

"You tripped into the carton of ice cream?"

"Yep."

"What about the chocolate sauce?"

"Tripped again."

"Interesting... The maraschino cherry?"

"Must have happened when I was cleaning up."

"Sure," she smirked, "that happens to me all the time..."

When he didn't add anything, she wondered if this was it, if this was where he was drawing the line. She told herself it was for the best, that they shouldn't even be _thinking_ about doing this, but she still couldn't help feeling disappointed.

"So," her partner drawled, interrupting her thoughts, "I believe you said something about helping me clean up?"

Seems she'd been wrong after all; the game continued, at least for now...

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she walked across the room, quickly closing the gap between them. "So I did," she confirmed, trailing a finger down the side of his chocolate-streaked neck, "but I didn't think it would be this big a job."

"Are you rescinding your offer to help?" he asked, a bit unsteadily. She could tell he was fighting for control, but without much success. Her partner might be good at this game, but she was better...

"Oh, don't worry," she reassured him, "I have no intention of leaving you holding the bag all by yourself. I'm just thinking that this may not be the best way of going about it, that's all," she explained, licking the chocolate off her fingers.

She paused, thoroughly enjoying the look on his face as he struggled to figure out exactly what she was up to. The poor guy didn't stand a chance...

"I'm thinking there must be a more efficient way to get you cleaned up," she continued, leaning in closer.

"And what exactly might that be?" he asked, his voice several octaves higher than normal.

"Well, I think _this_..." she said, pausing briefly to lick whipped cream from the tip of his nose, "might work better."

"Uhuh," he mumbled, having seemingly lost the ability to form full sentences. Guess that meant she won...

It was a hollow victory, though. She'd have to put a stop to this soon enough. Not that she wanted to stop – holing up in that closet still sounded pretty damned good to her – but they _were_ in the office, in the middle of the day, where someone could walk in at any time.

"I'm afraid there's a problem, though," she said, pulling away slowly. "What I really wanted was a banana split..."

"No problem," he answered, chuckling lightly, "I have a banana we can use..."

She blinked hard, processing what he had said. Surely he hadn't meant.... A banana was just a banana, right? One glance at his smug expression told her that, in this case, a banana was definitely _not_ just a banana.

Holy crap... Guess her partner won after all...


	4. Chapter 4

**Soft vs Hard, Chapter 4**

He stepped out of the elevator, congratulating himself on thinking of the on-site gym as an alternative to driving all the way across town to his house. After a quick shower and a change of clothes from the overnight bag he kept in his car, he was feeling much better and ready to get back to work

He was walking towards his office, mentally going over what needed to be done before day's end: start paperwork on the new witness; touch base with the Manchester bureau chief; assign marshals to the case. Unfortunately, multi-tasking had never been one of Stan's strong suits, which is why he failed to notice the puddle of strawberry jam by the conference room door. Even more unfortunate was the fact that his spiffy new Italian leather shoes were made to impress, not to prevent slips & falls. Lacking any non-skid properties, they could do nothing to prevent their owner from suddenly becoming airborne and landing ass-first into the sticky stuff.

Cursing under his breath, he pulled himself up, checking for damage. Nothing hurt but his pride, he concluded, though he'd need another change of clothes; he certainly didn't want to walk around with a sticky wet stain on his butt...

He looked around, suddenly noticing the office was empty. When he'd left earlier, he'd made it very clear that the two agents were to clean up their mess before going anywhere. And yet, looking around the room, he could see no improvement; if anything, the place looked even more of a mess than it did before. He was hard-pressed to find a single surface not marred by some kind of food by-product: a small lake of what he could only assume used to be vanilla ice cream next to the filing cabinet; a mound of congealing whipped cream by Mary's desk; chocolate hand prints on top of the copier, of all places; a trail of cherries, nuts & chocolate sprinkles leading down the hallway...

The marshals themselves, however, were nowhere in sight. He couldn't imagine they'd gone home – not if they expected to have jobs come tomorrow morning – so it stood to reason they were somewhere nearby.

He heard a loud thud coming from the end of the hall, followed by muffled voices & laughter. Could they be hiding in the utility closet? Why on god's green earth...

Shaking his head, he refused to even think about why they might be holed up in there; the possibilities were simply too frightening. Those two might be the best agents he'd ever worked with, but they were also the most infuriating. Talk about arrested development!

Well, he was done enabling them. He was going to put a stop to all this juvenile behavior, once and for all. Those two needed to grow up and behave like proper U.S. Marshals.

"Mann! Shannon! Get your asses out here!"

He was rewarded by the sound of something crashing to the floor, followed by more muffled laughter and what sounded like... squealing? He was thankfully spared from having to think about that one for too long by the younger marshal's reply.

"Coming!" he shouted through the door.

This triggered a fit of hysterical laughter from Mary, confirming that both marshals were indeed holed up in the closet. What were they doing, playing hide & seek? Exasperated, he walked down the hall, taking great care to avoid the numerous smudges & hand prints plastered all over the wall. Something about those hand prints was off somehow, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong with them...

Shaking his head, he stopped short of the closet door, waiting for the marshals to come out. A full minute passed, then another, without either agent making an appearance.

"If you're not out here in 30 seconds, I am coming in there and dragging you out!" he shouted, making no attempt to hide his mounting frustration.

"Be right out!"

"I'm starting the countdown right now!" he yelled back, wondering what could be taking them so long to come out of the damned closet.

Just as he was about to rip the door off its hinges in sheer frustration, a disheveled-looking Marshall stepped into the hallway, carrying a mop & bucket. The younger marshal was a mess: hair sticking out whichever way; shirt half-untucked & showcasing a variety of food-based stains; pants wrinkled, one belt loop hanging by a thread; and one missing shoe. Amazingly enough, though, there was not a single smudge anywhere on his face or neck. What were the odds of that?

"What did she do to you?" he asked, somewhat perplexed. "Try to drown you in a bucket of rocky road or something?"

"Or something," the younger man replied, smirking.

"Never mind," he sighed. Whatever inane prank they'd been playing on each other, he decided he really didn't want to know about it. "Is Tweedledum planning on coming out any time soon?"

"Right here, Stan!" chirped the blond agent, suddenly materializing in the doorway, looking just as disheveled as her partner. "Ready for clean-up patrol," she added, brandishing paper towels & a bottle of Lysol to emphasize her point.

"What happened, exactly? You were supposed to get the place cleaned up, not make it look as if a smorgasbord exploded in here!"

"Sorry!" they replied in unison, though neither one looked all that remorseful.

"Oh, for the love of god... What do I have to do to make you two behave? Throw you over my knee and give you a spanking?!"

"Maybe you're right," Mary replied, barely suppressing a laugh. "Maybe a good spanking is exactly what we need!"

Marshall at least had the good grace to keep quiet through this, he noticed, though he had suddenly turned beet red and seemed close to hyper-ventilating. "Sorry about the mess," he stammered out haltingly. "We'll take care of it. That's why we went into the closet. To get... stuff... cleaning stuff... I mean, why else would we have been in the closet, right?"

"Yeah," piped in his partner, "we had some trouble getting a handle on things at first, but we've got it all figured out now. Things are just swell!" she continued, earning a panicky look from Marshall.

"What are you two up to?" he asked, more out of habit than because he really wanted to know.

"Nothing," she replied, stifling yet another laugh, enjoying her partner's continuing unease. "We had an argument, which you are only too well aware of – sorry again about that, by the way – but now we've reached an understanding."

"And what is that understanding, exactly?" he asked against his better judgment. He was pretty sure he really didn't want to know...

"Well, while I maintain that soft food is still superior when in a bind, I have come to see the merits of Marshall's point of view. I'm ready to concede that, in certain cases, hard can also be good. In fact, hard can be very good sometimes," she added, smiling innocently.

"Never mind," Stan interrupted, holding up a warding hand. "I don't want to know... I don't want to see or hear any more about this... Just... Leave..."

"We can't just go. We can't let you clean all this up..."

"Oh, don't worry. I have no intention of cleaning this mess up myself. I'll call the cleaning service, ask them to come over right away. But, rest assured, the cost of doing so is coming out of your paychecks!"

"Fair enough," Marshall replied, looking suitably chastised. "Sorry again about... well, about everything..."

"Forget about it. Just go home. Get cleaned up. And whatever the problem is, for god's sake, get it out of your systems before you show up for work tomorrow morning!"

"Thanks, Stan," Mary chided in, looking remorseful as well. "We owe you."

He watched them leaving, noticing a pair of chocolate-colored hand prints on the back of Marshall's shirt. Those things were really starting to annoy him; he couldn't figure out why it mattered, but he sensed that they somehow held the key to some greater mystery...

Just as he was about to chalk it up to an over-active imagination, he noticed another hand print, this time in vanilla, on Mary's left butt cheek. A hand print that perfectly matched the hand that was right now resting against the small of her back, guiding her towards the elevator.

Suddenly, everything just clicked into place: the closet, the disheveled appearance, Mary's comments and Marshall's reaction to them, those damned hand prints... In one moment of blinding clarity, it all became horrifyingly clear.

Oh hell...

No wonder it took them forever to come out of that closet...


End file.
